The Science of Flirtation Will Stay Inexact
by tepid sponge bath
Summary: The Science of Flirtation Will Likely Remain Inexact for All Eternity - Sherlock continues to be hopeless at this flirting business and gets surprising advice from an unexpected source  who he also tried to chat up, don't ask .


**Disclaimer: **The characters of _Sherlock _are not mine, nor is the story, nor are the characters from the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no monetary profit from this.

**Note: **A sister-story to _The (Horrendously Inexact) Science of Flirtation_ and _The Science of Flirtation Remains Horrendously Inexact_.

**The Science of Flirtation Will Likely Stay Horrendously Inexact For All Eternity**

"We got kicked out of the bar, Sherlock."

"Well, we're in another bar, aren't we?"

"But I liked that one, Sherlock. It had clean bathrooms. And bowls of nuts that you wouldn't catch your death out of." John poked at the clearly unsatisfactory bowl of nuts in front of him. "It's all your fault."

"_My _fault? How was I supposed to know she'd take offense at that?"

"Because you just don't say things like that to real people, Sherlock. Jesus. And they were just waitingfor an excuse to throw you out. You've been scaring the girls away. Notice that there were fewer of them than usual tonight?"

"Of course I noticed."

"Yeah, sorry, I forgot who I was talking to for a bit there. Of course you bloody well noticed, you're Sherlock fucking Holmes, aren't you?"

"You're not happy."

"Really? How the fuck could you tell?"

Sherlock made an annoyed noise at the back of his throat. "Sarcasm, John. That's a bit low. So is swearing."

"Whatever. The only reason I haven't headed home yet is that we don't have anything even remotely alcoholic back at the flat, and I _need _a drink after what you've put me through. And before you say that you haven't put me through anything, I will have you know that it is torture, absolute _torture_, watching you try to talk to, approach, look at or otherwise have anything to do with women." John took a pull at his drink only to find that it was, in fact, empty. "It's like – like – I don't even have a metaphor for it anymore. The next time I see a train-crash-car-wreck-sort-of-thing I will compare it to Sherlock Holmes Talking To Women, and it might not even measure up!"

Sherlock mumbled something indistinct. It sounded reproachful, but John ignored the tone. Then Sherlock mumbled something else, and John had to take a moment to tell himself to swallow, _swallow_, and not spurt his drink all over the table.

"What do you mean '_one more try'?"_ he spluttered.

"I mean that I want to have one more try."

"No, no, _no!_ You can't mean that! You _can't!_ If you mean that," said John, contemplating his options, "I will scream. And deny that I know you. And I won't bail you out either, if it comes to that."

"Please, John." And there was that kicked-puppy look of his again. Somewhere out there was a woman who wouldn't be able to say no to that face, no matter what it was actually saying. At least that was what Sherlock thought. You had to admire that kind of faith. It was almost like a kid believing Father Christmas would show up. During Easter.

John should have known better. He really should have. Every nerve in his body screamed against it. But still he found himself saying, "Oh, all _right_."

He tried to remedy it. "Just one. And then we're going home, or at least I am." It still wasn't quite right. "And all you will say – the _only_ thing you will ask – is if you can buy her a drink." That ought to be safe enough. It was the only thing that he could think of, really. Sherlock had tried it before – John and Lestrade had taken him through every trick in the book – with decidedly negative results, but at least it wouldn't start a small war if he happened to use it on a visiting foreign dignitary. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly." Sherlock knocked back his drink. "Thank you, John."

And he launched himself at a woman sitting with her back to them. John thought she looked a little familiar, but, he thought wryly, Sherlock had probably been through half the girls in London by now, so that wasn't too surprising.

xxx

Sherlock sidled up to her as only Sherlock Stalking Women could.

"Hello," he said. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"That's really sweet of you, but no, thanks."

"Just one?"

"I'm not interested, I'm afraid."

"Please?"

"Um. I'm really not interested."

"I won't slip anything in it. You can watch them mix it up and pour it. I won't go near it. So even though I am remarkably good at sleight of hand I won't be able to do anything to it."

"You're _really_ desperate, aren't you?"

"And I can stay a fixed distance from you as well. I won't rob you."

"Look, I don't think I've made myself clear. I'm not interested _in men_." She turned in her seat, and her eyes went wide at the sight of something beyond Sherlock. "_John?"_

Sherlock looked from her to his flatmate, who was wearing an identical expression of shocked recognition. He looked again. It should have been _obvious_, given the family resemblance.

"Harry?"

xxx

She joined them at their table, and stayed, even if John refused to go without alcoholic drinks out of sympathy. It was too much, really, that the one woman who hadn't been ready to bludgeon Sherlock with a bar stool within seconds of the delivery of the pick-up line was his lesbian sister.

"If you didn't want your feelings hurt by other people drinking," he pointed out, "you shouldn't have gone to a bar."

"I was meeting someone," said Harry dismissively. She had listened very attentively as they told her precisely why they had ended up in this part of town, in this bar, on this particular night – or at least as John did most of the talking while Sherlock mostly sulked – and she turned to the world's only consulting detective, looked him up and down appraisingly. "Hard to believe you're having trouble with the ladies."

"Well, it's true." Sherlock prodded sullenly at the olive at the bottom of his otherwise empty glass with a toothpick. Unlike his flatmate, he hadn't gone for refills. There hadn't seemed to be any point.

"The stuff you've been telling me, it sounds like, well, frankly, it sounds unreal."

"God, I wish it was," interjected John. "It's _all _true."

"Even the bit with -?"

"Every damn thing, Harry. I was there for all of it."

"You're really hopeless, aren't you?"

"Thank you for your wonderfully frank observation." Sherlock speared the olive, and gave the toothpick an extra twist to make sure it stayed dead.

"Now, now, Sherlock, sarcasm!"

"You've just been waiting to use that all evening."

"Yes, I have."

"How _mature_ of you, John."

"At least the girls seem to like me. Very much."

"What, one girl on each of three continents?"

"That's not true! Though I'm betting that's more than you'll ever get."

"Boys, boys, play nice! God, between this and his blog, I can't imagine what you two must be like at home."

"Oh, I _doubt_ you could."

"Don't you be snarky at me, mister. I may not be a bleeding intellectual, but at least I have no trouble getting laid. The ladies like me too, don't you know." Harry beamed good-naturedly at Sherlock, taking the sting out of her words. "Listen, there's one thing you haven't tried yet, and I'm surprised it hasn't occurred to you." She leaned across the table, giving him a big, conspirational wink. "What about men?"


End file.
